


Father's Day

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Child Abuse, Father's Day, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Hodges hates Father's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Grave Danger."

_(If I were Death, I’d look my father up; if I were Life, I’d run away from him; and I’d treat my mother to like calls and runs.) _

If there is one thing that truly, honestly terrifies David Hodges, it is the idea that he might become his father. The very thought of it makes the blood curdle in his veins and his breath come short, like he’s about to have a panic attack. 

Usually though, he can push these suspicions aside, shut them away in the dark corner of his mind reserved for nightmares, but there is one day every year where the idea seizes hold of his brain and won’t relinquish its grip. That day is Father’s Day. David _despises_ Father’s Day, loathes it with an intensity most people reserve for serial killers and child molesters. If he could, he would hunt down the nitwit that dreamed up the holiday to flay them alive, centimeter by centimeter, over an open flame. 

Father’s Days are usually spent under the hood of a car, tinkering with it and trying to ignore the panic attack that is lying in wait for him if he thinks too much about what day it is. He fights against the wave of memories that the word ‘father’ invokes, fights against the urge to roll up his sleeves and study the tangible scars his childhood has left him. 

He spends his Father’s Days alone. Needless to say he is more than a little startled (he’s downright astonished, really) when he straightens from peering at a ’57 Cadillac’s engine and Greg is standing there, wearing a lopsided smile and bearing a bag emblazoned with the yellow arches of McDonalds like some sort of peace offering for an argument they’ve never had. 

David raises an eyebrow, swallowing against the lump that’s been lodged in his throat ever since he opened his eyes this morning and realized the date, but Greg just smiles and tells him that he brought fries, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and Fruit ‘n Yogurt Parfait (David’s habitual Mickey D meal). 

And at least this is a distraction from the pressure in his chest, so he smirks and informs Greg that he’s a good little slave as he accepts the offered bag. Leaning against the car, David focuses on the feel of the grease on his fingers rather than his shirt rubbing against his scars, the taste of the beef as he chews on the Quarter Pounder rather than the ghostly presence of copper from split lips that have long-since healed. 

Halfway through the burger, he announces that they can share the fries (they’re already halfway cooled anyway from the ride over to David’s house) and he watches Greg smile and begin popping French fries like Tic-Tacs. When the fries are demolished, David starts in on the Fruit ‘n Yogurt Parfait, enjoying the bitterness of the blueberries as they war against the crisp flavor of the strawberries, and listens as Greg launches into a story about his cousin Neal, who refuses to eat a single fruit or vegetable and literally lives off pizza. It’s a pointless story, but it’s enough of a distraction that David feels the pressure in his chest ease somewhat, and the yogurt slides down easier past the lump in his throat as he swallows spoonful after spoonful and lets Greg’s voice wash over him. 

When the story is over, there is a moment of silence, and David quickly breaks it, licking the last of the yogurt from his spoon as he explains how much of a thing of beauty this ’57 Cadillac is going to be once he’s through with it. He’s going to refurbish it, put on an entire new coat (at this Greg grins and tells him to go for a royal purple shade, and laughs as David scrunches up his face in disgust and informs him that he is not a pimp and is in fact going to paint it a pale sky blue), and it’ll be like it’s brand new again. 

And then he runs out of things to say, and silence rears up its ugly head again. The weight resettles on his chest and his hands tremble slightly; he hides this by tapping Greg on the shoulder with the spoon and informing him that he’s got some Ben ‘n Jerry’s in the freezer if Greg wants some. He is almost absurdly grateful when Greg accepts the invitation. 

Whenever Greg comes to his house, it’s like the younger man is visiting it for the first time. He’ll wander from one piece of furniture to another, idly tracing patterns in the carved wood of David’s chairs and moving around the odd knick-knack, with a constant look of curiosity on his face and an unreadable gleam in his eyes. He is sitting on the couch by the time David emerges from the kitchen with two pints of Ben ‘n Jerry’s, shoes off and socked feet idly resting on the coffee table. 

Greg immediately begins devouring his Karamel Sutra at such a rapid pace that David is waiting for him to wrinkle his nose and groan about brain freeze at any second (Greg pops up at such random times, David’s taken to keeping his favorite ice cream flavor and trying not to think too deeply into why). David works on his Oatmeal Cookie Chunk slowly, letting the ice cream slowly wash away the flavor of the parfait and the phantom-like taste of blood. 

He rolls his eyes but obeys when Greg tells him to kick off his shoes and take a load off, and then rolls his eyes again when Greg bursts out laughing and points at David’s big toe poking out of a hole in his sock. 

This does, however, lead to another random story from the other man, about how he used to steal his older sister’s socks and fill them with disgusting things, like slugs and worms, just to hear her scream. Greg grins when David asks him how old he was when he stopped doing such childish pranks. Stop? Why would Greg ever _stop_? His sister may now be a married woman with a five-year-old, but that wouldn’t keep Greg from sticking a few worms in her socks if he had the chance. 

Then they fall into a silence that would have been comfortable on any day other than Father’s Day, and after a moment of quiet that makes his heart labor in his chest like he’s just run a marathon and the lump start to impede the ice cream he’s trying to swallow, he nudges Greg’s foot with his own and tells him to say something. 

Greg looks startled for a moment, and then shrugs and smiles and launches into a story about the first time that he ever tasted Karamel Sutra. David closes his eyes and just_listens_ to the soft syllables and bright enthusiasm of the other man’s voice until the tight muscles in his shoulders gradually loosen and the knot in his stomach unclenches, and he is almost, _almost_ relaxed. 

That state of semi-relaxation ends as Greg remarks offhandedly that he called his father to wish him a happy Father’s Day. From what David knows of Greg’s father, the man is a virtuous, hard-working man who just retired from his white-collar job the year before, a man who has never raised his voice to his children in his life. He swallows, tasting decades-old copper on his tongue, and forces out a vague mutter. 

And Greg is looking curiously at him now, as though David’s mumble intrigues him, and not for the first time does David curse the other man’s inquisitiveness, even as he struggles to find another topic to discuss. His half-finished ice cream is starting to melt, but he has no appetite to finish it, and so he mutters something about putting his Oatmeal Cookie Crunch back in the freezer before he fairly flees to the kitchen. 

Of course the other man follows him, footfalls silent on the tiles but his voice glaringly loud as he asks David if he’s spoken to his father today, and Greg looks honestly surprised at David’s flat no. But then again, why shouldn’t Greg be surprised? He has a father who’s earned the right to be honored on Father’s Day -- the thought has probably never occurred to him that David’s father might have lost that right, or that David’s father might not be around to get a happy Father’s Day thrown in his direction. 

David’s hidden scars ache, suddenly, as though someone has reopened every one of them and rubbed salt into the wounds. He closes the fridge and leans against it as Greg tilts his head and asks him why, and he doesn’t look at the other man’s expression as he laughs, bitter, and says his father’s been dead for twelve years and he’s not about to call Ms. Cleo to contact the man. 

He cuts off Greg’s apology with a sardonic comment about how maybe he _would_ someday call Ms. Cleo and contact someone, but he rather thinks he’d chat up somebody like Einstein or Madam Curie, and that’s a topic that (while irrelevant) is enough to prattle on about, and he fights against the silence and the heaviness in his chest by rambling. 

In fact he rambles for so long that he loses track of his own words, and stutters his way back into silence, staring at the tiles rather than Greg’s face. And Greg is silent, until David can no longer stand it, and he is willing to say anything to break the hush, anything at all, and so his voice is low as he says that he wouldn’t have wished his father a happy Father’s Day anyway. He laughs when Greg asks why, just as bitterly as the last time, and says that his father had been a man of few words and even fewer morals. (The sentence tastes like copper and grief, enough to choke on, and presses the weight of seventeen years of life spent living with that man onto his shoulders.) David swallows hard before he looks at Greg and summons up a smirk and a half-shrug. Father’s Day is a wannabe holiday anyway, he says, like Flag Day or St. Patrick’s Day. 

He doesn’t blame Greg for looking confused, because he knows he is being cryptic, and so he leans back against the fridge and begins to speak, each word catching in his throat and forcing itself past the lump. 

His parents got married right out of high school, he tells Greg. That’s how it was back then, he supposes, but David was born when they were just twenty, and Christopher came along five years later. He remembers how his father had worked for a local landscaping company, and would come home smelling of fresh-cut grass and sweat. He remembers the dirt under his father’s fingernails that the man never could quite wash away. His father had always hated not being able to afford to go to college, had always considered himself smarter than the rest of the high school graduates, had always chaffed at being stuck in a brainless job any dimwit could do. David remembers how his father would come home and sit in sullen silence most days, but other times he would rage, against a God who had given him intelligence but not enough potential to get out of this pathetic little town, against his employer who was a simpleton, against his wife who had trapped him here, against his two sons who he was expected to clothe and feed. 

David falls silent then, memories of his father’s anger making his head pound and his eyes burn, and he blinks hard before he says in a neutral voice that he got a full scholarship to college and never looked back, except to keep in touch with Chris, and that he hadn’t seen his father face-to-face for eight years when he died. But it’s hard to breathe, suddenly, while Greg just looks at him, and David can hear his LAPD supervisor informing him icily that he thought himself entitled, with an attitude problem, and that it was_highly_ suggested that he put in for a transfer. At the same time the voice of his father fills his head, the man twelve years gone but still screaming at his mother, at his brother, at anyone who would listen that his boss had told him off for fancying himself entitled, that he was being reprimanded for an ‘attitude problem,’ that all these idiots could go screw themselves. 

The two voices in his head overlap and drown out whatever Greg is saying, and so the other man has to repeat himself once, twice more before David can actually understand that he’s asking if David went to the funeral. 

Yes, he says, and doesn’t elaborate, remembering how it had only been him and his mother there, listening to the priest drone on about how his father was in Heaven now (even though all three of them knew he was in Hell, if there was such a place). Chris had refused to come, David remembers, and had been astonished and a little betrayed when David went. Chris hadn’t understood then, didn’t understand now, that David had needed to make sure for himself that the bastard was dead. 

People say that we’re doomed to grow up to be our fathers, you know, he says to Greg. Do you think that’s true? 

Greg just looks at him for a moment, and then grins and shakes his head. Not at all, he informs him, and wrinkles his nose. I mean, my dad likes _musicals_ and hasn’t worn a pink shirt in his life. We’re nothing alike. 

He manages a slight smirk at that, though it feels odd on his face, and tells Greg that obviously his father has better taste, and that Greg needs some serious fashion supervision if he’s worn pink for anything other than a prank. 

Greg grins and just studies him for a long moment, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Then he begins a series of questions that makes David openly stare. Did your father ever tackle a deliveryman to get a package that could save someone’s life? Did he ever play Dukes of Hazzard with someone? Did he ever keep a pint of Karamel Sutra in his freezer for a friend? 

Of course not, David says, and there’s a trace of annoyance in his voice because those are some _ridiculous_ questions. His father wouldn’t have liked Nick Stokes, with his easy smile and Southern charm (he can hear his father scoffing _Southern pansy_ in his head), wouldn’t have been caught dead playing board games, and wouldn’t ever have had a friend to keep ice cream for. 

He supposes he sees Greg’s point, but still, the voice of the LAPD supervisor echoes in his head, throwing words like ‘entitled’ and ‘attitude problem’ like darts at him, and he shakes his head and mutters something about needing to get back to work on the Cadillac. 

He’s slipping his shoes back on when Greg’s quiet voice stops him. You’re not your father, David, he says, and his tone is earnest. And then Greg is in his personal space, his expression ridiculously determined, like he’s about to cross the Rubicon -- and maybe in a way he is, David thinks, as Greg’s lips suddenly press against his, still cool from the ice cream and tasting vaguely of caramel. 

David half-closes his eyes, savoring the feel of the other man’s lips against his own (Greg’s lips are damp and slightly chapped), and gradually, oh-so-gradually, the muscles in his frame loosens, the pressure in his chest dissipates like it’s never been there, and his supervisor’s voice is finally banished back to the dark corner of his mind. For the first time this Father’s Day, he feels truly relaxed, and knows that after today, truth will always taste a little like Karamel Sutra. 

After all, his father would have never been in his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, a hole in his sock, kissing another man. 

I wouldn’t kiss your father, Greg tells him when he finally breaks the kiss, and laughs as David shudders and says he certainly hopes not. Then his expression turns to something soft and tender and watchful as David sits down on the couch and begins to roll up his sleeves, and after a long moment of just looking, he breathes out, gazing at the patchwork of scars that layer David’s pale skin, no, I’d _kill_ your father. 

David lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in (he should have known Greg wouldn’t run screaming at the sight of the scars that marred his skin), and smirks a little at Greg’s words, saying, well, we can always burn him in effigy.

He mentally kicks himself when Greg’s face lights up and the other man asks if he’s got any gasoline in the garage. 

**"For rarely are sons similar to their fathers: most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers."   
~Homer, _The Odyssey_**   



End file.
